twilight,' the winter evening,' the noon-day walk'-all subjects consecrated by national associations. Goldsmith and Thomson are the poets of rural life, and Cowper completes the charming triumvirate. The latter's love of the country was absolute.

I never framed a wish, or formed a plan,

That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,

But there I laid the scene.

His description of the pursuits of horticulture, winter landscapes, and rustic pleasures, eloquently betray this peculiar fondness for the scenery and habits of rural life. Many of these pictures are unique, and constitute Cowper's best title to poetic fame.

THOMSON.

HAPPINESS is considered by many philosophers as chiefly dependant upon constitution. There is certainly a vast difference in the susceptibility to enjoyment among men, and none the less as regards their capacity of endurance. An easy temperament—a mind endowed with luxurious tastes, yet undisturbed by intense desire, will be sure of gratification when free from physical suffering, and within reach of its favourite objects; while an ambitious and restless disposition, pines in the midst of plenty. When an amiable heart is united to ample mental resources, good health and a contented spirit, a certain quiet Epicurism is the result which renders life prolific of pleasure. Men thus organized and endowed, are happy until actually deprived of their blessings. They feel little concern for the future; habitually disregard the painful associations of the past, and cordially improve the present. They contrive to maintain a perpetual truce with care. Their equanimity is not ruffled. by passion. Their peace is seldom invaded by anxiety. Physically healthy, the brain operates serenely; optimists by nature, hope balances apprehension, and the heart preserves a complacent self-possession, Such men never have a "lean and hungry look." They "hear music," relish good viands, and extol gratitude as a cardinal virtue. Longings waste not their energies; ardent hopes win not their attention from the immediate.

They

are prompt on all pleasurable occasions. Fervid anticipation mars not to them reality. Irritating regret chains them not to departed joys. Life has momently a fresh interest. They go with the stream, and take things as they come, ever contriving to see a rainbow in the midst of the storm. Such men grow fat. They are most pleasing companions. They put us at ease and in good humour with the world. They will not quarrel, and are seldom vexed. No fever of philanthropy, no mania of politics, no pressure of affairs, can permanently excite them. They are all for the calm, the sequestered, the tasteful, the luxurious. They smile at the writhing of the passionate, and pity the eager crowd. The world calls them lazy, and they are not anxious to discredit the title. In literature, such men form the exception, not the rule. The pursuit of letters is too often joined with morbid vanity and insatiable ambition. Were it not for an occasional example of the Epicurean letterato, the profession might be deemed incompatible with happiness. Where the "elements are so mixed" in the man as to promote the poet's felicity, few human beings derive from existence, higher and more constant satisfaction. The muse to these souls comes with little courting. Study is but infrequently a toil. Such spirits wait for good rather than seek it; above all, they appropriate it, and, unless fortune is strangely perverse, obtain and actualize more than an average share.

Of this species was James Thomson. When he first went up to London with "Winter" as a capital, while enjoying the view of city novelties, he suffered his introductory letters to be purloined. He was unadroit, a poor horseman, and a bad reader. The affections once concentrated upon Amanda, were disperssd among his friends and family; but he was a celibate rather from necessity than choice.

A literary lady invited him to pass the summer at her country-seat, but instead of flattering her intellectual propensity by sage conversation, he preferred to sip wine with her husband, and so lost the favour of a Countess. He was once seen to bite out the sunny side of a peach with his hands in his pockets. A lover of music, he did not fatigue himself with blowing a flute or flourishing a fiddle bow, but kept an Æolian harp in his window, and listened to the nightingales.

Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh pour

The mazy running soul of melody

Into my varied verse.

He courted the great for patronage, rather than seek "toilsome gains" by the industrious exercise of his powers. He neglected his private concerns, until want or friendship goaded him to exertion. He mused pleasantly when alone, sat silent in large companies, and let the current of his soul flow freely among his intimate companions. He composed chiefly at night, when social allurements did not interfere with his meditations. To him might well apply what was said of a similar character—“ Give him his leg of mutton and bottle of wine, and, in the very thick of calamity, he would be happy for the time being." He speaks of the "godlike wisdom of the tempered breast," and remarks" to have always some secret, darling idea, to which one can still have recourse, amidst the noise and nonsense of the world, and which never fails to touch us in the most exquisite manner, is an art of happiness that fortune cannot deprive us of."

The very diction of Thomson breathes a kind of luxurious serenity. The opening stanzas of the Castle of Indolence present a scene of dreamy repose, which soothes and wins the fancy like an Eastern tale.

Here naught but candour reigns, indulgent ease,
Good-natur'd lounging, sauntering up and down:
They who are pleased themselves must always please;
On other's ways they never squint or frown,
Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town.

A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm;
Above the reach of wild ambition's wind,

Above those passions that this world deform?

The following is a friend's description of Thomson, inserted in his own poem:

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,
Who void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes,
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain:
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat;
Here quaffed encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet,

He loathéd much to write, he cared not to repeat.

The blank-verse of the "Seasons" has none of the lofty effort of Milton, nor the passionate force so common in Shakspere. It is flowing and free. We perceive, indeed, a careful selection of words, and are sometimes conscious of a studied construction. But, generally speaking, the language of Thomson is diffuse. His native idleness tinctures his poetic style. Perhaps its peculiar charm consists in the facility and unfettered course of the rhythm. One reason, however, of the vagueness of the impression we derive from his poetry, is the prolixity of the language. Several times in the course of this poem, occurs the word "amusive”—an epithet which admirably serves to designate the character of Thomson's verse.

Although, for the most part, the bard of the "Seasons," was a passive recipient of poetical influences,